


The King's Fool

by lolo313



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: F/M, Infidelity, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-17
Updated: 2014-08-17
Packaged: 2018-02-13 15:12:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2155221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lolo313/pseuds/lolo313
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Her mother had told her to never be any man's fool. And yet here she was.</p>
<p>When Gwen happens upon a letter on Arthur's desk, her world crumbles from out beneath her feet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The King's Fool

            Her mother had told her, _Never be any man’s fool_. She didn’t remember much about her, save for the stories her father would tell—how they’d met, dancing round the Maypole, the smell of her bread filling the whole house, the way her eyes sparkled when she smiled, the cough which turned to fever which in turn took her from them. Gwen had been no older than six. For a while she’d been able to keep her mother’s face in her mind’s eye, was able to remember the tinkling quality of her laugh. But as days turned to months turned to years, she faded from her, like mist before the dawn. Now all that was left to her were stories, someone else’s memories that should have been her own.

            But this piece of advice was wholly _hers_. Her mother had waited till they were alone, till her father had gone to the forge, Elyan in tow ( _never too young to learn a trade_ , he’d said with that guffawing laugh of his). It was in that feminine moment they shared, when the men had left them the house, along with the cooking and cleaning and mending, that Gwen felt closest to her mother. Quietly, never turning her head to look directly at her, she’d admired the strength in her arms, browned by the sun, as she dusted a shelf, scrubbed the floor, wiped down the windows. These same limbs could also cradle a curtain as nimble fingers wove a needle and thread through a tear. She worked with a quiet determination, head bent over whatever task had fallen into her lap. Though they spoke little, her mother dolling out tasks with a glace or flick of her wrist, Gwen felt her mother open up while they toiled together, something shared between them in their labors.

            So it was with some surprise and apprehension that Gwen looked up, crossing the room at her mother’s summons. She’d been scouring a cooking pot, fingers slick and blackened from the grease caked on the bottom, when her mother, who sat with a faded pair of trousers draped across her knees, asked her to come forward. Her fingers held themselves, tight as a winter cloak. Her eyes, looking not looking.

            And then she’d told her. _Never be any man’s fool_. No build up. No explanation. Gwen almost too young to understand. Just held her gaze and told her, that flat quality in her voice when talking back wasn’t an option. Then she’d bent her head and resumed threading her needle, callused fingers pinching the thread between dirty nails.

            A few days later she took to bed. Before the month was out she lay dead and buried.

            Gwen would have liked to say not a day went by that she didn’t think of her mother—and at first, during the months immediately following her death, this was true—but life demands to be lived, and the grinding stone of time is not easily slowed. And like snow in spring, her mother too melted away, taking with her the way she smelled, the feeling of her hands through Gwen’s hair, the dimples when she smiled.

            But she’d come back, every now and again, when something reminded Gwen of her mother. When she brushed her hair for hours, till it shone like polished stone in her mirror, like her mother’s had. Or when Ana, the cook, baked cinnamon rolls, which smelled like her. Or like now, when Gwen cleaned, rag in her hand warmed from work, the sweat on her brow a token of her hardship, a badge of honor.

            Of course, as Queen, she didn’t _have_ to clean. There were servants a plenty to see to Arthur’s and hers needs. But she’d been born common, and some part of her remained common. Besides, what harm was there in dusting a bit while Arthur was out hunting with Merlin? She saw the way her husband worked the poor boy, heard the deriding remarks. All in jest, of course. Gwen, more than anyone, knew in what high regards the King held his manservant, how much he valued his trust and council. But this did not stop him from working him to the bone, and then some. So when she could manage Gwen tidied up, just little jobs here and there, to make Merlin’s life a little easier. And to remember her mother.

            _Dress sensibly_ , she’d told her. The word, large and cumbersome in her mouth, had meant nothing to her when her mother had first spoken it. _S-E-N-S-I-B-L-Y_ , she’d spelled, _means smart_. And smart meant a simple, cotton frock, tied at the waist, sleeves rolled up. She’d even pin the hem at her ankles so as to not trip herself. Servants would be sent away, or given sufficient chores to occupy them while she cleaned—it didn’t do to see the Queen on her hands and knees scrubbing. It was her little secret. Not even Arthur knew what she did while he was out. Sometimes, though, upon returning from patrol or council or a hunt, while unbuckling Arthur’s sword belt or helping him out of his armor, Merlin would give her a sheepish grin, the barest hint of teeth, noticing the fireplace he’d been tasked with scouring now, somehow, magically sparkled.

            Summer had rolled over Camelot, wrapping them in warm breezes, bathing them in sunlight. The season had yet to turn cruel and muggy, and for a few weeks the air was bright and light and joy radiated from the citadel like heated stones. For Arthur, this meant feasting and hunts and day-long patrols (which Gwen knew were little more than an excuse to camp out beneath the star studded velvet sky and escape the oppressive weight of sovereignty, if but for a night). For Merlin this meant more or less the same thing, except for eating at feasts, he served, instead of tracking prey, he carried extra arrows and bolts, and for patrols, well, she assumed that changed little.

            But for Gwen, the prolonged absence of her husband was a relished time spent in memories, her fingers slick with polish, the smell transporting her back to a time when her mother, rag in hand, would work till the swords her father had forged gleamed and glistened brighter than any noble lady’s jewels. Till sweat prickled on her brow, till her knuckles ached, she’d scrub and rub and work, the fabric of her dress clinging to her chest.

            Today was such a day. The sun had yet to top the trees, the forests verdant like emeralds, and already it was sweltering, shimmers in the air dancing like maids at Beltane. Everyone, servant and noble alike, flung open their windows, fanned themselves, and began to turn a devilish shade of red. Over breakfast Arthur had suggested a ride through the forest, claiming the shade would keep them cool, and if not, there was always a stream nearby they could dip in for some relief from the heat.

            Gwen had been sorely tempted to accept—the wind through her hair, that delicate whisper of cool water about her toes, was almost too good to imagine—but she stayed her enthusiasm. As she had dressed that morning, cushioned before her vanity, an armada of combs and brushes and pins laid out before her, she’d watched a bead of sweat roll languidly down her temple, blotting at the collar of her nightgown. The oppressive heat reminded her of her father’s forge, of the orange flames, of air so scalding it hurt to breath. And there, watching herself, she was a child again, the breathy bellows of her father’s work her own breathing, rapturous in her chest. She looked at her hands, at the calluses, at the nails, now polished and trim and clean, that had known dirt for so long. When Arthur had cleared his throat, reminding her of his offer, she’d smiled, took his hand within her own, and, thanking him, politely declined.

            As soon as Arthur and Merlin had set off ( _Why waste a day_ , he’d said, _and Merlin can be_ bearable _company, at times_ ) and the servants had been sent off with an order to “keep cool and relax,” Gwen had set to work. Bed turned down, curtains dusted, breakfast cleared, table wiped down, she made her way about her chambers, picking up Arthur’s tunic, folding his trousers, tidying up as she hummed tunelessly to herself. With every step her mother followed her, guiding her hands as she swept and mopped, correcting her, whispering tips and insights. It was almost as if she were still alive.

            Selfishness undid her, ultimately. Gwen didn’t want to let her mother go, didn’t want to lose her again, not now, not when she felt so painfully near. But the room shone, nearly _sparkled_ , every surface glistening with polish like it was brand new. All, save, for Arthur’s desk.

            How someone who’d been raised from birth in all the finest points of poise and nobility could maintain such disorganized squalor was beyond Gwen. You would think a roving band of marauders had laid siege to Arthur’s desk from the looks of it. Papers, endless papers, every which way, some older than the King himself. Empty inkwells, broken quills, knickknack brick-aback from every corner of Camelot and beyond. No wonder Arthur never could get any work done here, preferring to stroll the grounds, Merlin in toe, arms laden with scrolls and various important documents. Arthur called in _controlled chaos_. Gwen thought _mess_ more apt.

            No matter how she pleaded and reasoned, however, Arthur refused to organize anything. Said everything was in its proper place. Forbade her, Merlin, or any other human being for that matter, from touching so much as a single paper, lest his system be irrevocably ruined. But certainly a _little_ tidying, just tapping some papers back into place, couldn’t do any harm.

            Truly, the surface of the desk hadn’t seen sunlight since the day it was crafted. Piles and piles of papers, some little more than scraps and ink stains, covered every possible inch. How Arthur managed to get anything done remained a complete mystery. As is every woman’s gift, Gwen employed the upmost subtly—sliding a scroll into place here, righting a spilled inkwell there, tossing a broken quill. She’d just been about finished, fingers tapping a stack of tax reports into a neat little square, when a scrawling flourish of writing caught her eye.

            Now, Gwen was never one to snoop. _Keep your eyes in your own head_ , her mother had told her _, lest you see things you aren’t supposed to_. She meant, of course, not to gawk at the nobility, at the ladies pretty dresses, and never, especially, to catch the eyes of a nobleman. When Gwen had asked why, had insisted she tell her what was so dangerous in a man’s eyes, her mother had simply shuddered and hugged her daughter close. Of course, Gwen knew now what her mother had been so afraid of, of the liberties certain nobles would take with common girls. But she was common no more—she was Queen, and feared little from her husband’s court.

            Yet Gwen had always been possessed with a nigh insatiable curiosity. No one would go so far as to call her a gossip (less so now, given her elevated station), but Gwen loved to listen to the local rumors, who had bedded whom, the comings and goings of peasant and Lord alike. At feasts and tourneys, somehow without her even willing it, Gwen found herself in a clutch of Ladies, ear perked and bent towards their whispering, jewel-colored lips. She never contributed or commented—to do so would be far below her and unbecoming of Camelot’s Queen—but oh how she loved to _listen_.

            So, naturally, an unfamiliar script would catch her eye. Years spent at Arthur’s side—through council and treaties and too many diplomatic visits to count—had trained Gwen to recognize seals and sigils and heralds from every kingdom across Albion. Furthermore, hours spent pouring over documents from every hand within Camelot had familiarized Gwen to the point where, with little more than a second’s glance, she could know who had written whatever report had just been handed her, and, on her best days, how recently. This was a feat neither Arthur, nor Gaius, nor even Geoffrey could profess mastery of.

            Which is why Gwen suddenly found herself struck dumb at the sight of a script utterly unbeknownst to her. In and of itself this was not entirely unheard of, or even that remarkably strange. Certainly Camelot brimmed with literate nobles, and even some of the more educated lower classes would be capable of scrawling their names. But this paper had been found on _Arthur’s_ desk, her husband and King of Camelot. Anything that passed before his eyes should logically pass before her own as well.

            Or so she thought.

            The script, tight and only slightly ornate, was wholly unfamiliar to her. The letters huddled together as if cold, the cramped hand that scrawled them certainly learned, but not well. The tips of _Q’s_ dipped too low, the arching _M’s_ far too high. But talent, effort, shone through, despite the lack of finesse. A young Lord, perhaps, one new to his role and its standards? But surely Gwen would have heard tell of a death, of some untested, fifteen summer shy lad rising amongst the nobility. Or rather a young Lady-in-Waiting, one who had learned her letters from over his mistress’s shoulder. The thought fouled Gwen’s mind and left a bitter taste on her tongue. It would not be the first time some nubile thing had thrown herself at her husband, mistaking his courtesy for interest. Arthur had always handled these would-be dalliances with the poise and tact befitting his station, dissection his _mot du jour_. Would he then, for propriety’s sake, hide such an offense from her, to spare her feelings? Could this be not the first but one of several such correspondences?

            In the end there was no solution but to read the letter. To set her mind at ease.

            Really, it was Arthur’s fault for leaving it out in the first place.

 

 

            “Gwen, are you alright?”

            Gwen blinked awake, the late afternoon light orange across the bed she found herself sprawled atop. Above her, haloed by a dying sun, Arthur glowed golden, all teeth and cheek, grinning down at her.

            “Oh, yes, I’m…I’m quite alright, thank you.” Gwen sat up, brushed a coil of hair from her face, used the opportunity to dash a finger across her cheek— _dry_.

            “Are you sure? Your eyes look a little red.”

            “Oh,” Gwen forced a wide yawn, “you know how I get when I nap. Didn’t think I was so tired!” Her laugh died in the air around her. Arthur smiled, cupped her face in his hand. The palm warm against her skin.

            “Are you hungry? I can have someone fetch you some supper.” Gwen shook her head, watched Arthur as he strode to the mahogany table in the middle of the room, as he uncinched his belt and draped it across a chair.

            “I’m fine, thank you. But you should eat. Long day of hunting and all.” Arthur did not look at her as he spoke.

            “I ate with Merlin on the trail.”

            Like a gut punch, his name. Gwen felt as if she would double over. As if she would be sick. But none of this did she show to Arthur.

            “Catch anything?” She asked, an affected grace in her voice.

            “Neither hide nor tail. Though Merlin caught a cold I fear. How he can catch sick in summer is a mystery.”

            “How unfortunate. Gaius will treat him, I’m sure?”

            “Hmm?” Arthur had moved to his desk, had picked up a stack of papers he now leafed through. “Oh, surely. I’ll stop in later to see how he’s doing.”

            “That’s very…kind of you. I’ll have one of the girls in the kitchen whip him up some soup. That should set him right as rain.” Arthur looked up at her, face beaming with what she would have once called _love_.

            “That’s what I admire most about you, Guinevere—so full of compassion.”

            Is that what had kept them together all these years? _Compassion_? Is that really all that remained between them now? Oh, there had been love once, Gwen was sure of it. Even now she could feel the tender pads of his fingers as they danced across her check, the press of his lips on hers. All the picnics, the horse rides through glens and woods, all in the quest of wooing her, of winning her love.

            And oh, how he’d won it. The nights she’d stayed up thinking of him, of his smile, the flaxen brilliance of his hair, made gold by her mind’s eye. Had he asked, she’d have given herself to him completely, right then and there, that first dinner they shared in her hovel of a home. But Arthur was more than a gentleman—he was a prince, a _king_. Even after that unfortunate instance with Lancelot, that foolish woman’s wild, he’d forgiven her. Had welcomed her back to Camelot, welcomed her into his bed. Not as some sheet warmer, but as his Queen.

            How she remembered the exquisite weight of him that first night. He smelt of soap and wild flowers, the tips of his hair still damp from his bath. Never would she have been able to imagine the enormity of him—not just the piece in question, though that too shocked her, green as she was and having never seen a man fully naked before—but simply the sheer size of him, all of him, man atop woman. When he pushed into her the first time she thought she’d die, scream and die, all of it too much, too painful, too wonderful. Suddenly there was nowhere to turn to, no flower to pick as their conversation idled, no bluebird to follow with her eyes when Arthur’s gaze became too piercing, no Merlin to prattle on and distract them from their pained, awkward laughter. But there, pressed beneath him, him _inside_ of her, there was nowhere to run. There was only Arthur.

            So she decided to love him. Oh, she loved him before, of course, everyone did. How could you not? Charm fell from him like apples from a tree. And he was royalty, which didn’t hurt either. And beautiful. Terribly beautiful. Beauty like that could be dangerous, beauty that knows it is beautiful, that is self-aware. How it can use you. Make you do things. Make you love it. But Arthur wasn’t like that. He didn’t know, never truly, how magnificent he was. Too self-conscious, too crushed beneath Uther’s thumb, to ever fully realize how splendid he was. Nonetheless, people couldn’t help but love him.

            But Gwen decided to love him fully that night, thinking into the midnight hours, long Arthur had rolled away and fallen asleep. She would be devoted, more than any man’s deserving. She would give herself, body and soul, to her King. And look where it had gotten her.

            “Guinevere? Are you alright?”

            Gwen blinked back to the present moment, the room blurring into focus. Arthur, hip cocked to the side, looked up from the letter dangling from his fingertips. _And what fresh betrayal is contained within_ , she wondered.

            “Fine, I’m fine,” she smiled, brushing her hair back into place. Suddenly her bodice felt painfully tight against her chest, the thread straining with each heaving breath. Any minute now a clasp for pop, a seam tear. Soon she would fall apart. “Just tired. This heat saps the strength from me.”

            “You should rest,” Arthur moved from around his desk, laid a heavy hand on her shoulder. His smile was affectionate. Almost paternal. “We can’t have the Queen collapsing at court.”

            “Why don’t you lie down with me? You must be exhausted after your hunt.” She prayed her voice was even, eager but not desperate. But her eyed begged.

            “There are some documents I should go over before council this afternoon—”

            “Those can wait. Arthur, please.”

            Together atop the duvet Gwen sweltered, Arthur’s chest against her back, an arm draped lazily around her waist like a loosened girdle. They hadn’t thought to undress, not for such a short rest. But now sweat pooled on the underside of Gwen’s breasts, in the pits of her arms, across the base of her hair. Arthur’s breath rolled hot against the nape of her neck. All along her back she felt him, and yet didn’t. Like a wound coil, his body lay tensed against hers. The faintest hint of distance between them.

            From somewhere deep within her courage swelled to the surface, and Gwen twisted round in Arthur’s arms till she faced him. His eyes blinked open in surprise as she grabbed his face, pressing her lips to his. Their sweat made the kiss slick and salty.

            “Gwen, what are you—” Arthur began before Gwen’s mouth swallowed his words. Breast against chest she pressed her body onto his, felt the rapid beating of her own heart. But then strong hands on her shoulders pushed her back and she kissed empty air. “Guinevere, please…now isn’t the time…”

            “But I thought we could…it’s been so long since we last—”

            “I know that, I know. I just need…just, please, give me a little time. I’ve been so busy, what with the council, and Morgana still on the loose…you understand, don’t you?”

            All too well.

            How long had it been since Arthur had lain with her as husbands should with their wives? How many years? The memories of his touch had long since faded from her skin, dreams before the dawn. How had their intensity dulled to little more than nostalgic aches?

            Gwen knew well enough why. The long months waiting. The hands pressed expectantly to her belly. The inevitable, red betrayal of her own body. Bouts of love making, once so rife with passion, reduced to perfunctory duties. Twice a week, then once. Every other month. And now, years since she’d felt herself opened my Arthur’s love. The necessary excuses— _duties, stress, her own fragile health_.

            Would it have been different, had she succeeded in bearing Arthur a child, in securing an heir to Camelot’s throne? Perhaps. But even if Gwen could have brought herself to ask, Arthur would never have told her the truth. Too afraid, too _chivalrous_ , to hurt her.

            So her bed, and her body, had grown cold from want of touch. Oh, Arthur would kiss her, would hold her hand, would lean his face close to hers and whisper. But touch her, _love_ her, seemed too great a task, even for the King of Camelot.

            Gwen rose from bed, smoothed down the rumpled folds of her dress. She kept her face from Arthur’s, blinked clarity back into her eyes. Silently, she reminded herself who she was.

            “What shall I have the kitchens prepare us for dinner? Since you brought no game I thought we could have roast potatoes with some salted cod from the cellars.” How she wanted Arthur to run to her, to pull her back into his arms, to drag her down onto the bed. To explain and apologize and kiss all those lonely years away.

            “That sounds delicious. I have some matters that need attending to. I’m sure Merlin will fetch me once dinner is ready.”

            How quiet the room was without him. How utterly unchanged by his absence.

            Long hours passed, marked only by the deepening pools of candlewax cooling on the table. Dinner came and went without a single morsel touched. Some servant, some lower town beggar, would profit from her loss of appetite, but this thought brought her little comfort.

            Gwen found herself wandering the halls, gown whispering softly as it dragged along the polished floors. The votive torches danced in shadows across the hollow of her cheeks. Like a specter she floated through the citadel, frightening serving girls and guards alike. Each, as she passed, offered a hushed _your Grace_ , averted their eyes, held their breath till she vanished round a corner.

            She happened upon them by pure chance. Her feet had taken her to the dark, dusty corridors of the Citadel not oft frequented. Spare bedrooms, needed only when visiting dignitaries brought along oversized, opulent entourages. Of course, Gwen was no fool—she knew well enough that the servants and maids used the empty beds whenever their schedules permitted rapid, clandestine dalliances. Had it been any other day, had she not stumbled across the offending letter that very morning, Gwen would have turned on her feet and left the pair of breathy voices to their privacy.

            But something inside her, some deep seated pit of feminine intuition, of jealousy, made her inch towards the door, left ever so slightly ajar— _almost as if they wanted to be caught_. The wood felt smooth and cool beneath her fingers. For a heartbeat she thought of pushing the door open, of slamming it hard against the wall, of storming in and catching Arthur in the act. But what, ultimately, would that accomplish? Instead she perched her ear on the precipice of darkness and listened.

            How many years had it been since she had heard herself make these same noises? Two, three? Too long, for one still so young as she. Gwen knew what weapons she possessed, the danger in the roll of her hips, the swell of her breasts. Men would die for her. Men _had_. With a wink and a wave of her hand she could have had any man in the kingdom. Except her husband.

            It’s not as if Gwen wasn’t tempted. She was, sorely so. But Gwen was loyal, some would even say _fiercely_ , to Arthur. And besides, she had tested Arthur’s fury once before. She did not envy the hard months spent toiling away in some God forsaken corner of Camelot. She had felt reborn when Arthur forgave her. Would he except the same from her now? Probably so. She’d be pressured to give it, too. Decorum abhors unrepentant adultery, but only if it’s the woman’s fault. Men whose wives betray them are _cuckolds_. What do you call a woman in the same situation? Unfortunate, but nothing out of the ordinary.

            At length Gwen could no longer stomach the sounds coming from within the votive circle of dark within. What struck her most was how similar they were to those she’d once made, Arthur pressing down upon her. Wetter, perhaps. The slap of skin rougher somehow. And obviously the second voice was not her own.

            In a daze Gwen wandered back through the castle, eyes focused a few feet in front of her, bobbing along with each step. But she didn’t see where she was going; instead, her eyes saw her husband, tussling on a bed, without her, with a _man_ , a man she’d thought was her friend.

            In the morning, a serving girl woke her. She’d collapsed from exhausting in an alcove.

 

 

            Gwen avoided Arthur all of the next day. She wished that this was more of an accomplishment, but if Arthur remarked her absence he did not comment on it. When her meals were brought to her she dismissed them with a flick of her wrist. She did not trust her body to hold down food. Hours slid across her bedroom floor, a slant of light inching towards the foot of her bed. Around her the Citadel bustled and thrilled with nervous energy. Gwen gnawed her fingertips till they bled.

            At length the walls of her chambers seemed to press in on her, and even with all the windows flung open she found it difficult to breath. Gwen dressed, in fine violet satins, and left to stride through the halls. Maybe Arthur would happen upon her, maybe he’d notice the pained strain ringed round her eyes. Maybe this was what she truly wanted—someone to notice she suffered.

            For isn’t that always the part of the woman? There is no such thing as a _don in distress_. Men only bled in battles, which was noble. Women, when their time came, were kept apart until they were “clean” once more. How utterly foolish! Perhaps that was the great irony of Guinevere’s life—born poor, finished rich—but you can’t marry away your sex. She’d been doomed from the start.

            Pausing at the windows, Gwen let the breeze from the open eaves drift over her skin. The flush of her brow boiled and simmered, little cooled by the azure skies spread out before her eyes. Beyond the scope of her vision, off to her right, she heard the scuffle of worn boots on flagstones. _Some servant, passing through_. She turned, ready to stroll past, eyes never locking in that diffident yet royal effect Gwen had thought she’d never master, but stopped when her gaze caught the slash of crimson about his throat.

            “Merlin.”

            “Your Majesty.”

            They stood at opposite ends of the corridor, the ruffles of Gwen’s dress wafting in the breath of wind from the windows. In his hands Merlin clutched a tarnished breastplate. Silence hung between them like apples left on the bough in early November—heavy and sour. Merlin made to walk past her, and for a second Gwen wanted to let him, wanted him to walk past and forget everything. But then she turned and spoke as if to her shoulder.

            “I found your letter.”

            Merlin stilled, fingers spattering across the metal where he held it.

            “I don’t—”

            “The one you wrote Arthur. I found it on his desk.” Gwen met Merlin’s gaze. To his credit, he did not blink or turn away. Nor did he speak. The thin line of his lips paled. In her chest Gwen felt her heart roaring madness against the cage of her ribs. She felt dizzy— _she had done it, she’d said it aloud_ —and unsure of how to proceed. “Well, don’t you have anything to say for yourself?”

            “I’m sorry you had to find out this way.”

            Gwen felt as if she’d be punched in the stomach. Tears pricked painfully at the corners of her eyes and she couldn’t draw in breath. Her nails bit into the flesh of her palm.

            “Sorry? Sorry that I _found out_ like this?”

            “We never wanted to hurt you.”

            “There is no _we_!” Gwen knew she was shouting, but could no longer contain herself. “He is _my_ husband, I am his _Queen_! And you, you’re just—”

            Gwen clutched desperately at the emptiness, willing Merlin to finish her sentence. _Say it!_ she cried, _say it! Lover!_ But Merlin stared back unblinkingly, unashamed.

            “I’m so sorry, Gwen.”

            In two quick strides Gwen crossed the distance between them, arm raised. She felt the stubble of her ring bite into the soft of Merlin’s cheek, saw the trickle of blood rolling down towards his jaw.

            “Say it! Let me hear you say it!” She beat him relentlessly, till the knuckles of her hand stung and throbbed from the force of her slaps. All the while Merlin turned his face towards her blows, refusing to break her gaze. If only he’d hit her—she could have him banished, or better, killed. But he never lifted so much as a finger.

            Gwen couldn’t remember who eventually broke them apart—Sir Leon, perhaps, or maybe Gwaine—she could only recall arms wrapped round her waist, lifting her off the ground as she clawed and kicked at empty air. Merlin watched her go, receding before her eyes, that pitying look upon his face.

            They locked her in her chambers— _for her own protection_ —sent for Gaius and Arthur. Would he scold her, like a disappointed father? Gwen highly doubted it, for then he’d have to admit, even tacitly, what he had done. Maybe he’d simply tut and shake his head. Or pretend as if nothing at all had happened. Gwen didn’t know which she dreaded more.

            But Arthur is hours coming, Gaius tied up in the lower town, and Gwen thinks of all this later, after the fact. In those initial moments, when the lock turns and she is alone with herself, all she can do is reflect on those days spent trapped in the Dark Tower with Morgana. Through the nightmarish haze she remembers her Lady, whispering in her ear, words like beacons in the lonesome dark.

_Beneath all your fineries, beneath all your silks and satins, you’re still nothing more than a common, soot-covered blacksmith’s daughter_.

            And Gwen wept, for she now knew how right she was.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so very much for taking the time to read my story. Your feedback is always welcomed.


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